


best be believing

by lightseep



Category: Original Work
Genre: Explicit Language, F/F, Feminist leanings holla, Humor, Magic, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1830523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightseep/pseuds/lightseep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izzie didn’t know anything about tails and scales, but she did know that if there was anything the witch could do to help her then she had to find out. </p><p>[[A fairy tale, of sorts, in which Zayn is a witch, a girl crushes on another girl, and we learn the power of proper makeupping]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	best be believing

**Author's Note:**

> this, and all my love in this world, is for the beautiful [sarah notyrsweetheart](http://notyrsweetheart.tumblr.com) who asked for "young girl, heavy magic/mysticism, and Zayn." <333
> 
>  **IMPORTANT** : this is not a one direction fandom story, but my own original work. however, i do not own Zayn etc. etc. 
> 
> title from "best be believing" by AlunaGeorge. i recommend the LoveLife Remix

If there was ever a time to crush on someone, high school was definitely not that time.

No time was ever the time, honestly, but if you asked Izzie, high school was most certainly the worst time. It was different from middle school, when just about everyone got a free pass for being a giant embarrassment. High school was a shady bitch, sucking the life out of you then expecting you to turn right back around and care about things like “social ladders,” “your physical appearance,” and “good grades.” Having a crush in high school was like dumping salt right into the gaping wound. Emotions weren’t the same as they were in middle school, had somehow quadrupled in their intensity and even their frequency, so Izzie found herself arrested at the oddest, most unexpected moments. Having a crush sucked, was the thing.

But this crush was different. This crush required planning and detailing beyond the norm. This was high school and Izzie was determined not to screw up in high school. Easier said than done.

For one thing, Izzie’s entire reputation depended on it. If she hadn’t ended middle school with that terrible fiasco in the cafeteria (involving one very rude boy, a peanut butter sandwich, and the sharp corner of a Capri-sun), she would be fine. But he _did_ call her a “weird-ass nerd” and she _did_ smear peanut butter all over his grimy face while _then_ slicing at his stupid acne with the Capri-Sun, so her reputation had followed her to high school, as reputations do, and was already a bit tarnished.

For another thing, this crush was no ordinary crush. It wasn’t so much that Izzie crushed on a girl; that was fine, totally fine. It was the girl itself. This girl was pure light and joy and everything right in the world rolled into one impossibly beautiful package. Her name was Chloe. She had transferred in from out of state and had no idea about Izzie’s burnt reputation; Izzie was dead-set on keeping it that way. Izzie couldn’t exactly remember the first time she saw Chloe or the first time her brain had skyrocketed from “Oh she’s pretty” to “Oh wow she’s beautiful she’s amazing she’s so smart look at her hair today oh man what’s up with _my_ hair today did she notice, did she notice _me_ , oh no she’s beautiful,” but it had happened, and it had happened _hard_. Chloe was the kind of girl that made Izzie want to do better. The kind of girl she couldn’t get in a million years, but that didn’t stop her dumb brain from wanting it. High school was a fresh start and if Izzie couldn’t establish herself as the Cool Girl who Had It Together, what even was the point.

For one final thing, Izzie was painfully shy. She never spoke in class unless it was absolutely necessary, felt her face burning every time she locked eyes with someone in the hallway, and more than once had bumped into inanimate objects, apologizing to them, in her haste to leave the vicinity before she had to have any conversations about group projects. In a place where social prowess was revered, there was little to no place for social anxiety.

But never mind all that: Izzie had a plan. She already had the new haircut, the new wardrobe, the new busted-but-charming set of wheels. All she had to do was get her confidence up, get Chloe alone, and make her move.

 

* * *

 

Six months into the school year and Izzie has yet to become the Cool Girl who Has It Together.

She tries to tell Sam that now, on the phone, tries to drum up some sympathy for her poor unfortunate soul, but Sam is having none of it. She’s too freaked out about their upcoming chemistry test. She’s droning on and on about it, doing her thing where she pretends like she’s going to fail, hyperventilating, while in the next breath screaming that she’s the smartest person in their class (truth) but will still wind up in summer school (false) so Izzie has, characteristically, tuned her out. Sam might be her best friend but she can also be her best pain in the ass.

Izzie can’t be bothered about the chemistry test. She’s pulling at her hair, stressing about the kinks in it and wondering when would be a good time to change the subject. She “hmms” and “uh huhs” at the appropriate moments but Sam is relentless when she gets like this. Izzie tucks the phone tighter between her shoulder and chin and blows on her drying nails, trying not to blow in the speaker so Sam will hear. She tries not to think of Chloe but her brain is a traitor and before she can stop it she’s daydreaming about how she looked earlier, at her locker, how she had left a perfume trail behind her when she whizzed past, something fresh and sharp smelling.

Sam moans and groans some more, talking herself into circles of the same nonsense, until she says something that catches Izzie’s attention again: “I wish there was, like, a way to just send all this crap to my brain.”

Izzie snorts. “You mean like, studying? What you’ve been doing for the past three weeks, god.”

“… _No_ , and no I have not!” Izzie can see her now, pouting like she does when she’s caught out. There is never a more rapt student during lecture nor a more detailed notebook than Sam’s after chemistry class. “I mean like, I dunno…magic,” she grumbles.

Izzie’s about to laugh, about to say that it’s never too late to study witchcraft instead, but then a thought jolts her so hard her hand jerks and she smears the polish on her pinky. Her eyes bulge. She doesn’t know why she didn’t think of it sooner.

“Sam!” Her voice is shrill but Sam has already started up again. “Sam! Just, just _hush_ for a second, listen!”

Sighing like it physically pains her, Sam stops. “What.”

Izzie can’t speak fast enough. “I’ll go see the witch! _That’s_ how I’ll get her attention! I’ll just go to the witch and get like, a spell or a potion or an herbal something and, oh my god, that’s _perfect_!”

“Wait, what? What are you talking about, slow down!”

Izzie can feel her heart accelerate, can feel her face split wide in awe at her own genius. She’s a god damn genius. “For confidence, for talking to _her_ , to Chloe! I’ll just go see the witch!”

There’s a loud thump, like the sound of a book being thrown.

“Have you. Lost. Your mind.”

Sam still sounds hysterical, but in a different way now. Her eye is probably doing that twitchy thing. Izzie would laugh if she weren’t so dizzy.

“No, Sam listen—this is perfect, it’s flawless! I mean—it’s kind of terrifying, but I’m sure she’ll have something that can—”

“Land you in jail! Or I don’t know, kill you!” Sam’s screeching, but quietly, so it comes out like hisses.

Suddenly, Izzie can’t keep her energy contained. She gets to her feet and paces around her room from corner to corner, wet nails all but forgotten. She laughs, a little mad. “No, Sam, listen! Listen! Sam!!” She waits until Sam stops swearing, reverting to Korean like she does sometimes, like English is never suitable for the extent of her fury.

“All I have to do is bike there, ask for her help, and she either says yes or no; that’s it! Easy!” Izzie says, praying that her logic is sound on this.

“No, _you_ listen,” Sam counters. Izzie imagines her, back hunched over her dim desk lamp and all their chemistry notes scattered. Izzie spares a quick thought for her own inevitable F. “Izzie, you don’t—you don’t even know what this woman is like! She’s a _witch_!” And the way she says it is scathing, meant to strike fear no doubt, but Izzie’s face lights up.

God, she feels alive. “She’s a _witch_!” She sounds reverent, fascinated, and she really can’t believe she didn’t think of this sooner. Quickly, she opens her bedroom door to make sure her mom is still downstairs and out of earshot.

Sam sighs and it sounds like five people sighing at once. “Izzie, I know this girl has like…totally fucked up your year. Your life. I get that, but this is really like—drastic measures, don’t you think?”

Izzie thinks about seeing Chloe every day, in the parking lot, in lunch, about bumping into her in the hallway once and the way her skin had tingled afterwards, the way she could feel where her elbow had knocked hers for the rest of the day.

“No.” Her voice is hard. “I don’t think that. I think this is exactly what I should do, it’s a logical step, right? Like, I’ve been trying.” And she had been, had done everything she could think of for just a minute, just a conversation, but she was always too nervous to get anywhere. “It’s worth a shot, right?” She’s pleading but she can’t help it. Sam’s support is everything.

Sam sighs again, probably rubs at her temples, and it sounds a lot less distraught this time. “Yeah, Izzie, I know you have and I...I guess it is.” And Sam does know, she’s been there since the beginning, knows how every scheme they cooked up to turn Izzie and Chloe into Izzie&Chloe had crashed and burned.

“Look. The whole thing will take an hour, tops. I’ll text you as soon as I get there and leave, ok?” She’s already gathering her things, emboldened by Sam’s silent but strong support.

“I could, like, come with you?”

Izzie bites her lip, thinking. “No, I don’t think so—I think I need to do this on my own. And we both know you’ll be no help at all if you don’t memorize the entire textbook by tonight.”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” There’s a sound of pages rustling, like she’s back to it already, witches or no witches. “Just…be safe, yeah?” Her voice is soft.

Izzie smiles to herself, loving that they’re like this, that she has a best friend like this.

“And make it count,” Sam adds.

Izzie grins. “You know it.”

“Ok, love you, tell me how it goes right after! Izzie, I swear! No forgetting!”

“No forgetting, I swear. Love you too.”

“Bye.”

“Bye girl.”

As soon as Izzie ends the call, it hits her how she’s really going to do this. She’s _really_ going to see the witch. Looking out her window, she can just see over to the hill where the witch’s house is; it’s huge, elegant but terrifying and ominous against the darkening sky. Right before she runs out the room, she catches her reflection in the mirror. She looks a little crazy in the eyes, but she guesses she wouldn’t be sane if she didn’t.

Delicately, she tiptoes downstairs and through the garage, shutting the door softly behind her, pops on her bike, and pedals into the night.

 

* * *

 

 The thing about the witch is that no one can actually prove she’s a witch.

However, history shows that all someone needs is a feeling and a good imagination before the innocence of a new neighbor, albeit a little mysterious, spirals into “I saw her bite the head off a live dog, once.” The urban legend of the witch had spread like a disease, sending the town into a frenzy anytime someone saw or heard or felt something weird. They had collectively taken up the “we don’t understand it, so we hate it” approach and it had propelled them all to avoid, ignore, and speculate. Sometimes perpetrate. And in a few rare instances: percolate.

When the witch first moved into town, it didn’t rain for two months straight. Weather reporters blamed it on a drought but everyone else blamed it on her; all it took was a quick drive by her house, a quick peek at her garden, luscious and vibrant, for everyone to shout witchcraft. Once, a little girl got to shine on the local news for claiming that she had been playing on the sidewalk in front of the house when, out of nowhere, “I—I got—I got a nosebleed!” She had sniffled a lot and stumbled over her words and that was enough to make everyone holler voodoo. Never mind that word had later circulated, amongst the schoolchildren, that the girl was a frequent nosebleeder. Still, the legend spread. Everyone could tell you that it was a witch who lived in the old house on the hill but no one could tell you what she looked like. One day she had bright red eyes. The next day day she had scales all over her body, leathery like an alligator, and a tail that whipped fire. For one brief period around the holidays, rumor had it that she was dressed as Santa and worming her way down chimneys to steal all the presents, Grinch-style.

For these reasons, and others like them, the townspeople left her alone.

Izzie didn’t know anything about tails and scales, but she did know that if there was anything the witch could do to help her then she had to find out.

It’s fully dark outside by the time she pedals into the court at the foot of the hill. The only light comes from the moon that’s peeking out from the clouds. She slows down as she approaches, her brakes squeaking and the wind roaring around her. Swinging her leg over, she drops her bike on the gravel drive and looks up at the house. It’s definitely creepy. She can hear Sam’s voice in her head, an “I told you so” that she ignores because everyone already knows the witch’s house is creepy; it’s just like…a rule of witchery. Speaking of Sam, she plucks her phone out her back pocket and texts her that she made it.

It’s a massive house and it takes up most of the space at the very top of the hill. Izzie starts walking, ignoring the way it feels like she can’t breathe and how the gravel cuts through her thin shoes. The garden is truly overwhelming, alive with all sorts of plants that she’s pretty sure don’t grow naturally in the area. The closer she gets the warier she feels, pausing to look behind her, but there’s nothing in the street but the dry, tumbling leaves. For one wild moment, Izzie realizes that if this is her last moment on earth, if this is the last thing she’s to do before she’s turned into a toad, or like, something with eight eyes, at least she’ll go as a heroine, doing the most in the name of Love.

The porch is colossal, wraps around the whole house, and she refuses to peer into the shadows for something that isn’t there. So she walks up the steps, shivering at how they creak, and rings the doorbell.

 

* * *

 

 Izzie could say that she didn’t know what she was expecting, but that would be a lie; she was expecting gnarled hands, yellow teeth, maybe a glass eye, certainly a hunched back. She’s braced for it, for snakes for hair at the very least. But there’s the soft pattering of feet coming down the hall, the sound of about a gazillion locks being undone, and before she can think to turn tail and run, she’s got a set of young brown eyes staring right at her.

It hits her, somewhere deep in her gut, that this plan might have been a little unplanned.

For one disarming moment, she wants to laugh hysterically. Then she wants to throw up.

Then she wants to laugh again, but less hysterically this time and more in a laugh-crying way.

Instead, she croaks out, “Errr?”

The woman could stop traffic, is the thing, and not in the bad way. To call her the most aesthetically pleasing individual Izzie’s ever seen would not only do her an injustice, but it would be a lie so grave, so terrible in its untruth, that she’d probably have to repent for a thousand years just to make up for it. She’s stunning. She’s got dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, and the longest eyelashes Izzie’s ever seen. Her skin is clear and smooth, golden brown, and her hair is dark and heavy, falling to her waist.

“Hello,” the woman says back, and she sounds amused. Her voice is rich, deep, smooth like honey, and Izzie wonders if it’s possible to mentally curse whoever started those urban legends. They were way off.

“I, um…I…are you…” and honestly, is there an easy way to ask if someone’s a witch?

The woman laughs and it’s a lilting sound, clear like water. She gazes at Izzie and her mouth quirks up. “Am I a witch, you mean? Yes. I am.” She bows her head low, like she’s the one who’s honored, body curled tightly around the doorframe. She’s got an English accent, which only makes her more enchanting.

And just. Just, fuck that twice. Izzie wants to fall to her knees and kiss the ground she walks on.

Instead, she catches her breath and forces herself to smile; if this goddess can act normal, then so can she.

“Yeah, that’s…yeah. I’m Izzie.” She thrusts her hand out, proud of how she’s gotten her voice back. The woman raises her delicate hand and grasps it. She’s got about three rings on each finger and there’s a trail of tattoos running up under the silk of her sleeve. Her handshake is firm, warm, and if she notices the clamminess of Izzie’s hand she doesn’t show it.

“Zayn.”

Zayn, Izzie thinks, bounces it around in her head. The witch has a name.

“The witch has a name,” Zayn says aloud, smirking, and Izzie’s eyes grow big. Zayn chuckles again, a deep rumble in her chest, and turns away from the door. She’s halfway down the hall, jewels clinking on her, before she says “Come in, if you’d like” over her shoulder. It takes a second, maybe two, for Izzie to run through things like escape routes and the dangers of entering stranger’s homes, but the house smells like vanilla and baking bread, so she steps in out the cold and shuts the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

 Everything in the house glows. It’s warm and soft, inviting in a way that the outside isn’t. There are books stacked on top of one another, blankets and silks draped over furniture, and candles lit everywhere. Izzie walks down the hall and gets distracted by all the portraits on the wall. They’re all old, almost ancient, sad, morose faces peering back at her, and none of them look like Zayn. Horrifically, she wonders if they’re conquests instead of relatives, poor innocents who are now rotting and buried under the lush garden out front. Or something. The sound of teacups clinking brings her into the kitchen where Zayn is whirling around, bright and alive, filling a decrepit-looking kettle with water. Even though her back is to her and Izzie is pretty sure she didn’t make a sound, Zayn says “Sit.”

There’s a tiny table in the center of the kitchen, piled high with heavy leather books and intertwining plant stems, rolling onto the floor. Izzie sits and tries not to startle when her chair wobbles. She swallows, feels panic high in her chest, and thinks of what to say.

“So, umm,” she tries, startled when Zayn whips her head around to look at her. “How—how do you like it here?”

And there’s no other word for it, but she cackles. A true witch’s cackle. “Why don’t we skip the pleasantries; I know why you’re here.”

Izzie’s stomach rolls, like she might be sick. She narrows her eyes. “How?”

“I could sense it on you the minute you walked up the driveway. It’s all over you, like a stench.” The kettle whistles. “You are in love,” and without breaking their eye contact, Zayn shrugs and flicks her wrist, dismissively, and the whistling stops.

Izzie clears her throat and wipes her hands down her thighs; they’re sweaty again. “Um…I—”

“You are, child,” Zayn insists, cutting her off, and Izzie really objects to being called a child but there’s nothing condescending in her tone. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

Izzie would have guessed an infatuation, maybe a strong lust if she was honest, but love seems so…heavy. But then, she remembers what Chloe looks like when she’s checking her makeup in the mirror, with Izzie washing her hands two sinks away and pretending not to notice the way she always smears her lipstick, always too rushed to get to the next class, swearing under her breath and rubbing off where her eyeliner has creased.

“Well love is a bit…strong,” she says, tentative to contradict someone obviously very powerful and very much a witch.

Zayn shrugs. “But it could be love; if not now then soon.”

“Uhh…maybe?”

“ _Definitely_ ,” Zayn says, finite like that’s that. “Tea?” She tips the pot for her and Izzie thanks her. Zayn digs around in a cupboard and comes back with cookies. They’re just Chips Ahoy but the way she’s beaming they might as well be made of gold. “Have one of these,” she says, shoving them in Izzie’s face. “They’re my favorites.”

And suddenly, to hear something so human from someone who Izzie had, up until minutes ago, believed would be the just opposite, is enough to ease her nerves completely.

“Thank you,” she says, grabbing one and smiling.

It seems she thought too soon.

There’s a brush of something, smooth and cold, across her ankles and she yelps before she can help it, jumping up and tipping her tea a little. Her poor nerves are once again shot to hell. With a sound of claws on tile, what looks like a gray oversized rat skitters across the floor and behind a potted plant in the corner.

Izzie looks to Zayn for confirmation that this is normal, that she should not in fact run screaming out of the house, but Zayn isn’t looking at her. She’s staring at the pot.

“Oi!” she shouts, snapping her fingers and the pot starts to wiggle. Slowly at first but then more deliberate, until it topples over in a crash, spilling dirt on the floor, to reveal what’s behind it.

Izzie’s breath leaves her in a whoosh. “That’s a—”

“This,” Zayn smirks, calm as ever, walking over to scoop the creature up, “is Sebastian. He is my partner in crime, if you will.”

Sebastian is a hairless cat. He’s meowing furiously, obviously upset at being caught out, and Zayn just bops him on the nose until he stops. “He’s shy. He’s not used to strangers.”

Slowly, Izzie sits back down when she realizes that Zayn hasn’t secretly tried to curse her. “Oh that’s alright,” she says, gripping the table so her hands will stop shaking.

Zayn plops Sebastian on the edge of the table where he sits up and curls his tail around himself, the most pretentious cat Izzie’s ever seen. He stares right at her, orange eyes gleaming. With a confidence she doesn’t entirely feel, she reaches out a hand to him. Almost immediately, his spine curves into it and he purrs against her hand; the pretension façade drops like it was never even there. “I’m pretty shy too,” she whispers.

“Mmm,” Zayn says, smiling as she sits back down. “He likes you.” She crosses her legs as she sips her tea and Izzie hears her jewelry clink together, notices that she’s got bangles around her ankles and toes as well.

“So, Izzie. What can I do for you?”

Izzie drops her hand from where Sebastian keeps bumping his head up against it. She gulps her tea and lets it settle down in her stomach, making her warm. Suddenly she’s reluctant to talk about her love life with a stranger, but she figures that’s what she’s here for. She gathers her courage to start. “Well, there’s this girl—”

Zayn slaps the table with her bare hand. “Ah!” she exclaims, like she’s not surprised. “I am not surprised! Always a girl.”

Izzie laughs nervously, staring at where Zayn had hit her hand. On purpose. “Yeah…so, there’s this girl. And it’s not like ‘she doesn’t know I exist,’” she air quotes to make the point, “like, we totally know each other—or, _of_ each other. But I don’t think she feels the way I feel. I don’t _know_ if she feels the way I feel. I don’t know, I just…want the confidence to ask her out or say something to her, and I don’t think I have it.” She doesn’t know much.

Zayn crosses her arms and tilts her head down, looking from under her impossibly long eyelashes. “You don’t think?”

“I know I don’t. I’m always— I’ve always been nervous about stuff like that and this girl, she’s just.” She stops, grasping for the words.

“She’s a good person,” Zayn supplies, staring at her.

“Yeah.” Izzie nods excitedly.

“She’s amazing,” Zayn continues, scrunching her eyebrows.

“Yes, yes!” And wow, this is easier than she thought.

“She’s out of your league…”

“Yes oh my _god_ yes!”

“No!” Quick as a flash, Zayn smacks the table again, loud enough to startle Sebastian, and leaps up. “Don’t you ever say that.”

Baffled, Izzie stares at her and chokes on her words, taken aback by the hardness in her voice. “I—I’m sorry?”

“Yes, you are sorry!” Zayn continues, throwing her arms out. “There is no such thing as ‘leagues.’” She does sloppy air quotes, like she’s mimicking her, but it’s awkward, too mundane on her. “You came to me because you decided that you loved a girl, yes?”

Izzie sputters. “Well, I, I mean love is—”

“Whatever! Unimportant! The point is that you have taken the first step already, the purest step; you have decided to be honest about what you want, yes?”

“Well…yes?”

Zayn looks at her like she’s just grown another head. “Why the question at the end, say it like you mean it! Stand up!”

Izzie stands up. “Yes.”

“Again, child, they did not hear you over here— _two feet away_.”

“Yes!!”

“Better. Good. Now sit down.”

Izzie sits down.

Zayn comes back to the table, most of the fury gone from her face, with only her beauty left. And even her anger had been beautiful, Izzie realizes. How royally unfair.

So she tells her everything; from the awkward interactions with Chloe, to how their conversations never lasted too long and she was afraid that was because she knew, could see the desire all over her face; the classes they had together where Izzie would spend all her time devising ways to add relevant things to discussion, things that she knew Chloe liked (“Well if we’re to take Holden Caulfield as ‘the definitive youth experience’ then aren’t we basically excluding all youth that aren’t white, boys, and wealthy?” Feminism, she found out early on, was a strong like), all the times when she had tried to approach her with some inane topic, like how dumb it was to have a pep rally in the middle of the day, cutting into their lessons, ugh how _dumb_ was that. The entire time Izzie spoke, Zayn alternated between listening raptly and staring off into space while scratching Sebastian’s back. Pretty soon, Izzie’s voice had filled the entire kitchen, just talking and talking and talking until—

“Ok enough,” Zayn holds up a hand. She still has a blank look on her face but slowly rotates back to stare at Izzie. One perfectly lined eyebrow raised, she says “Girl. You have definitely got it bad.”

Izzie blushes right up to her forehead. “Yeah tell me about it.”

Zayn laughs and stands up quickly. “But that’s ok! Thank you for sharing that with me.” She was bright, chipper again, flowing into moods like she was changing clothes. She clears the table and walks over to the sink where she drops all the dishes in and turns on the faucet. “So,” she calls over her shoulder, swishing suds around, “what is it exactly that you want from me?”

Izzie sighs, clasping her hands on the table. “That’s the thing, I don’t really know…”

Zayn makes a strangled sound. “No, of course not.” She keeps tossing her head from side to side; her hair keeps falling in the dishwater. The ends are covered in suds. “But you know, I cannot make her fall in love with you.”

“No, I know! I don’t want that. I just want something to help me talk to her.”

“And you cannot do that on your own?”

Rubbing her hands across her face, Izzie sighs. “I’ve tried. It’s not as easy as all that. She’s like, super popular and always busy and always around people. We’ve never had a _real_ conversation. She probably doesn’t even remember my name.” Her voice trails off, more delicate at the end, and she can hear how pathetic she sounds.

So can Zayn.

“Argh!” Zayn exclaims, slapping her hand against the sink so bubbles fly. She bares her teeth as she whips her head around. “ _What_ did I say about that self-deprecation! Get it out of here!”

Izzie holds her hands up and scoots back from the table. “Ok ok I’m sorry! So she knows my name, but I just…I don’t know, I just want to talk to her. A lot. And kiss her.”

Zayn stares at her for a few minutes and then smiles, like nothing even happened, and goes back to washing the dishes. She’s scrubbing them so slowly. “Mmm yes. So what you need is confidence. And a chance to get her on her own.”

“Yes!” Izzie almost shrieks. “Can you do that?”

Zayn snaps her head back and cackles. It lasts for so long that Izzie’s not sure what to do, just kind of stares at her. Eventually she wipes at her nose, where she had snorted, and calms down enough to take a breath. “Oh, child, _can_ I! I have just the thing!”

Dropping the pot she was holding, she whirls out of the room. Not for the first time, Izzie is momentarily tempted to get the hell out of there. But then Sebastian creeps back in and sits right in the doorway, staring at her, like he’s daring her to move. What sounds like a bunch of doors opening and closing comes from down the hall, followed by rapid footsteps up a creaky staircase, and what sounds vaguely like glass shattering. The steps creak again and then Zayn is back in the kitchen, her arms full with books and glass jars and what seem to be—

“Are those…is that…an eyeshadow palette?”

Zayn drops it all on the table and sighs heavily. “Yes, and?” She looks quizzical. “Were you expecting eyeballs in pickle juice and dried up newt skeletons?”

Izzie tries not to look sheepish, hanging her head and mumbling. “I mean kinda.”

“Oh child,” Zayn says, smiling, “I’m no typical witch.”

Rubbing her hands together, she sits down. “Ok. The first thing you need to know about witchcraft is that just about anyone can do it. There is no special birthright or top-secret canon. All you have to do is want it and be willing to learn.”

Stealing another cookie, Izzie nods. Zayn grabs one of the huge leather tomes in front of her and starts flipping madly. She’s muttering under her breath and Izzie leans forward so she can see what’s in the book. There’re symbols, some more crudely drawn than others, like graffiti, and what looks like ancient script flowing across each page.

After a few minutes, she finds it. “Aha! Here!” Excited, Izzie peers closer so she can take a look but before she can see more than what looks like the title ‘Drunk in Love,’ which, ok?, Zayn snaps the book shut and leaps to her feet.

“So!” She’s loud now, excitement evident in her voice, “we need to assess you. Up, up, get up!” She motions with her hands until Izzie gets to her feet. She points to the center of the kitchen, right where the moonlight is shining down on the floor, and tells her to stand there. She goes, but haltingly, not prepared for a séance, until Zayn physically pulls her forward.

“Stay there,” she commands, baring down on her shoulders. When Izzie is where she wants her, she starts to circle her. Her voice is so quiet she might as well be speaking to herself. “What you need,” she says, directly in front of Izzie, “is confidence.”

Izzie starts to nod, speak her agreement, but Zayn throws up both index fingers.

“Shh shh! No noise. No movement. Close your eyes.” Izzie gulps and hopes it isn’t audible, closing her eyes and praying to whoever’s listening that she can still walk out of here alive.

“What you need,” Zayn continues, pacing around her, “is to get your girl alone, so that you may speak with her.” Her jewelry clinks as she walks.

“What you need,” she goes on, voice right by Izzie’s ear, “is to find the strength in yourself, so that you may be your best self when the time comes.”

Suddenly, Izzie can feel a breeze. It tickles her ankles and grows, slowly, until she feels it at her shoulders too. She must make sound because Zayn claps her hands, hard, and says “Hush! No noise!” She keeps her eyes squeezed shut, way too curious to open them but way too scared about the consequences.

“What you need,” and Zayn’s voice sounds distant, like she’s left the room, “is a strong heart.”

The second the words leave her mouth the breeze rushes and roars up, so powerful Izzie can feel it in her hair, sharp on her face. It rattles the plates in the cupboard and the glass quakes on the table. Zayn says something, a chant she can’t make out, and the breeze stops. When Zayn speaks again her voice is directly behind her.

“Open your eyes.”

Belatedly, Izzie notices that she had clenched her fists at her sides. She opens her eyes.

Chloe is standing right in front of her.

Right before she loses consciousness, she realizes that the reason Zayn is standing behind her is so that she can catch her.

 

* * *

 

 When she comes to, Zayn is fanning her with a dish towel. Izzie opens her mouth, to scream maybe, but Zayn presses a water glass into her hands before she can.

“You saw her, yes?” Zayn’s excitement is alarming in its intensity.

Izzie blinks, grimacing as she sips the water. “Yeah, she was…sparkling.” And she was; she’d been glittering like a disco ball, shimmery and light, but it had definitely been her.

“Ah!” And she’s quickly learning that Zayn does this a lot, these over-the-top exclamations like everything is a revelation. “Then your feelings for her are true.”

Izzie chokes. “I could’ve told you that! I did tell you that, actually!”

But Zayn has already twirled away and gone back to the table where she flips through her books again. She waves a hand dismissively over her shoulder. “Yes, yes, but you see the magic made it known; your feelings are all well and good, but for spells to work you need a pure heart with pure intentions. And you do. Aha! Come here!”

Zayn has the book back open to the same page as before, ‘Drunk in Love’ written in big block letters at the top. “This one, yes this one! This is what we want.”

Izzie leans down so she can read it. The subheading says “Anything Could Happen.”

“It’s the love of chance,” Zayn explains, eyes flitting over her face. “Since you and your girl already know each other, we don’t have to worry about introductions or any of that; which is good, that magic is much more complicated. What you need,” she looks up from the book and smiles right at her, brighter than the sun, “is a _chance_. One chance, and it has to count. Can you make it count?”

Izzie blinks. There’s a tingling in her fingers, spreading through her palms all the way up to her chest; she feels alive. So she smiles right back and says “Yeah. Yes, I can.”

Zayn claps her hands and nods. “Good. Good. Now, here’s what you need...”

And for the next half hour, Zayn spiraled through incantations, potions, gestures, spells, and—

“And the eyeshadow is for what, exactly?” Izzie asks, interrupting Zayn mid-incantation. Izzie’s tapping at the eyeshadow like it’s going to bite her. Annoyed, Zayn smacks her lips and pushes more stuff aside on the table until she unearths even more makeup; there’s lipstick tubes, dark as night, blushes, dozens of mascara brushes, and the most dangerous eyelash curler Izzie’s ever seen.

“These, my child,” Zayn says as a handful of lipsticks spill out from her raised palms. “Are for your face! A little makeup never hurt anybody, yes? And your girl likes makeup?”

Izzie is unsure. “Well yeah, but I mean…I have my own makeup, I know how to—”

“Bah!” Zayn says, flipping a hand. “Anything you can find in a drugstore does not count.”

And that’s just not fair. Izzie’s on a jobless student budget for god’s sake. “Hey—”

Zayn tilts her head and glares.

Izzie slumps, defeated. “Ok fine. This is very kind of you, thank you.”

Zayn nods her head sharply, ending that discussion. “Let me hear you practice.”

By the time Izzie pedals away from Zayn, waving back to her from where she’s standing and waving Sebastian’s paw in the window, they had practiced her spellwork for an hour and she feels, frankly, like she could fly.

 

* * *

 

 

School the next day was hell. Not that it usually wasn’t, but today was especially grating. All Izzie’s teachers kept nagging her, asking for assignments that weren’t even due yet that they knew goodness well she hadn’t even thought about starting. Every conversation she overheard in the halls, at lunch, at her locker, was either inane, offensive, or some creative combination of the two.  The day was stagnant, lackluster in a way her evening with Zayn hadn’t been.

Until English class.

The whole day she had been so wrapped up in how annoyed she was, so focused on just getting back to Zayn’s and perfecting her incantations, that when she stumbles into English, just barely making the bell, she hadn’t even thought about Chloe, not really, until she locks eyes with her.

She always sat in the front, easy for attention in a way that Izzie wasn’t, and that’s where she was now, right by the door, watching Izzie shuffle her way in.

Maybe it was the shock or maybe it was the magic she had stirred up, but in the most uncharacteristic way possible Izzie catches Chloe’s eye and makes herself smile through her rabbiting heart, makes herself wave even though she feels disconnected from every single limb on her body. Her face is hot, her breaths uneven, but when she plops down in her seat she feels better than ever. It had felt good, doing what she wanted, when she wanted.

But it didn’t feel as good as Chloe’s eyes had felt, locked on hers, her mouth soft and sweet, when she had waved back.

 

* * *

 

 That night, Zayn practically rips her in half she hugs her so hard.

“Ahh, yes child! Ahh! Ahh!” She twirls around the room, slapping things in her excitement, her skirt whirling up and scaring Sebastian who’s back behind the fir.  “You are doing it! And so fast!”

Izzie laughs, taking a huge bite of the cake Zayn had made to celebrate. The smell of it had greeted her as soon as she walked in the house. She had asked Zayn how she knew that she’d had a good day. All Zayn had done was shrug, toss her hair, say “I’m a witch” and that was that.

She tells Zayn all about it, about getting a wave from Chloe and speaking up in her other classes.

“Mmhm, yes,” Zayn nods, following along. “The magic comes easy for you, child.” She’s spooning sugar into her tea but, after a few scoops, abruptly stops and stares at the teaspoon in her hand. Then, letting out a laugh like chimes clinking together, she chucks it over her head and picks up the entire sugar dish, pouring it straight into her cup.

Izzie stops talking and stares at the sugar crystals cascading into the tiny cup, wonders if she should say something, deciding against it when Zayn catches her eye.

“Now, what about your makeup?” Zayn asks, lifting the cup and saucer to her mouth. Her throat bobs as she swallows and she closes her eyes, practically purring. Izzie pokes at her cake so she won’t say anything about that.

“What about my—”

“Do not start that again,” Zayn warns, eyebrows raised.

Izzie rolls her eyes but tries to play it off like she got something in her eye.

“There is nothing in your eye,” Zayn deadpans, unimpressed. “I see your brows look more defined at least; what about your lipstick? Your girl likes lipstick or gloss?”

Always just a breath away, an image of Chloe pops into her mind. “Lipstick, I think. Although sometimes her mouth looks really shiny, like maybe it’s wet…but I don’t know if that’s because she bites at it sometimes when she’s not paying attention, I mean she’ll do that sometimes in class, but the color is kind of tinted so it might—”

Zayn chokes and splutters, her teacup clanking against the saucer and tea splashing onto the cloth.

“Argh!” Zayn garbles, and she throws up a hand. “Enough! Child!”

Izzie physically feels her voice dry up in her throat.

Panicked, her eyes bug out and she claws first at her throat, then at the table. She can’t speak.

Zayn is looking at her like she can’t quite believe she exists, head tilted and voice stern. “Every time I mention your girl you vomit up every piece of information you have ever known about her, whether true or of your own imagination.” She flicks Izzie’s forehead, hard, with a nail. “I think I want silence for a while. I talk, you listen, yes?”

Izzie takes the deepest breath she can and opens her mouth on the loudest scream she’s possibly ever done. Nothing comes out.

Zayn throws her head back and roars in laughter. “Aha! I am Ursula, the sea witch!” She claps her hands like she’s never been more impressed with herself and gets up to rummage through the makeup still on the table.

Knowing the true peril of a voiceless creature, Sebastian jumps up onto Izzie’s lap and curls into her. She pets him but she leaves the sour look on her face.

“And wipe that sour look off your face, child; this will not set right if your mouth is all twisted.” Zayn pulls out a color that looks like the flesh of a blood orange and her interest is piqued despite herself.

“Mmmhm.” Zayn says, smug as ever, sitting down and leaning forward so she can apply it to Izzie’s top then bottom lip, her hand so close that Izzie can see the sparkle in her rings, can smell the perfume on her wrist. “That’s what I thought.”

 

* * *

 

 For the rest of the week, Izzie changes slowly, in dime-sized amounts. It takes her twice as long to get ready for school in the mornings, but she figures it’s worth it when she catches her reflection throughout the day, pleased as punch to see that her makeup is still set. She walks through the halls with incantations in her head, matching her steps to the beat of the words and imagining Zayn beside her, spinning like a loon, encouraging her forward. It’s easier to speak in class, to ignore the sweat prickling on her forehead as she raises her hand anyway, stuttering out her words but having them heard anyway, learning what it means to do things even if you’re scared, just to say that you did them, anyway. Her mom would catch her at odd moments around the house and ask her why she was smiling, or why she was bouncing down the stairs and Izzie wouldn’t know what to say, would just shrug as she closed the door and headed to Zayn’s.

And Zayn was always available. She never went anywhere, spent most of her time asleep or reading, so Izzie could stop by in the mornings for a quick makeup-check, on her lunch breaks if she had time, and in the evenings when she would be baking bread, or blaring old records, or once, on a whim, deciding to repaint all the rooms in the entire house.

“Can’t you just…magically do this?” Izzie had asked as she dipped her brush into the paint, the purple so dark it was almost black.

Zayn, characteristically, had flung a bejeweled hand over her shoulder and just doubled her efforts with the rolling pin. “No, child, I cannot _magically do this._ ” Izzie rolled her eyes at the sneer in her voice but turned her back so she wouldn’t see her. “Imagine how exhausted I would be all the time, eh?” She was really putting her shoulders into the rolling, little wisps of hair flying off her forehead. “The thing about magic is that it takes and takes from you, but it rarely gives. You have to do that for yourself. The magic can get you there, but ah,” she paused to scratch her nose, successfully smearing paint on it; it didn’t even look bad on her, damn her, “the work, the labor, the physical effort: that must be you. How else will you grow?”

She would do this all the time; turn a basic conversation into some sort of life lesson that Izzie knew was for her benefit alone. It wasn’t like she talked like this all time, like a prophetess. Izzie had caught her, once, baby-talking to Sebastian. It’s simultaneously a moment she’ll never forget and one she’ll never mention out loud.

“And you, child, you are too full of light; you are too full of wonder, to rely solely on the magic.” Zayn looked at her and grinned, slow and easy, before she went back to her quest to conquer the wall.

So things were good. Izzie learned to flick her cateye perfectly, now understood that concealer was always placed _on top_ of foundation, and now knew how to call to the magic in her, how to make it do what she wanted.

 

* * *

 

 Things weren’t good for very long.

Izzie tried not to feel surprised, and thus disappointed, but disappointment was a tricky monster and she found it draped over her before she had the whereabouts to combat it fully.

The bad thing about trying to make herself better, trying to become the person she wanted to be, was that she had to face the reality of how things currently were. And currently, her grades were screwed. All week she had wanted to call Sam for some comfort, maybe tricking her into coming over to help her study, but she knew that a lecture was attached to that and she wasn’t in the mood. She thought about going to Zayn’s, but Zayn had already told her that she was no good with academics and a visit there was bound to end in too many sweets and not enough studying. So she had crammed, desperately, for her chemistry exam, rereading sentences five times over before they made sense and willing her brain to memorize equations that she didn’t understand. By the time she closed her eyes the night before, it was the stillest part of the night and her alarm had gone off three hours later. Only in her mad rush out of the house, no time for makeup, only time to snatch a banana off the counter, did she remember that she hadn’t done any magic practice at all.

Which is why she was sitting here now, squirming in her seat, certain in the knowledge that she was failing this exam. She knows it surer than any of the answers she had bubbled in. Nothing made sense at all and all she wants to do is go home, sleep until she can’t anymore, then wake up and eat a whole pie with Zayn.

Wiping her face for the umpteenth time, not having to worry about messing anything up, and seriously fuck makeup right now, she guessingly circles the last few answers and gathers her things, dropping the exam with as much resentment as possible at the front of the room, and slouches out.

She’s halfway to her car, halfway to wishing the grey rainclouds would just open up on her already, halfway to wondering if magic even exists, when she hears her name. At first she ignores it, not in the mood for whatever it’s about to be, and picks up the pace. But then the voice calls again, and it’s not a shout so much as a sweet trill, a gentle calling and it can’t be, it cannot be—

Before she can stop herself, Izzie whirls around and there she is.

For a second, she wants to smack herself for ever doubting that magic existed because it is so unbearably, painfully obvious in her.

Izzie barely has time to blink before Chloe’s right in front of her, panting and trying to get her breath to talk. She takes a second of her own to try and remember how to breathe.

“You dropped this,” Chloe says, and she holds out a tiny tube of lipgloss. It’s an electric blue and Izzie doesn’t remember putting it in her bag; Zayn must have slipped it in when she wasn’t looking. She holds out her hand to take it and tries not to shiver when their fingers touch.

“Thanks, I must have…dropped it.” She’s truly an idiot.

But Chloe just laughs. Her hair is blunt today, not curled at all, like she didn’t have time, and it falls straight down and cups her chin. “Yeah, when you picked up your bag it rolled out. I finished my exam right after you so I saw it when I got up.”

Izzie doesn’t know what to do, what to think, is too busy trying to focus on a million things like what Chloe’s saying, what _she_ needs to say, how her breath probably smells, how her bare face probably looks, the shimmery eyeshadow on Chloe’s eyes and how it’s charmingly inexpertly done, the fact that if she had turned her exam in a moment sooner, a moment later, if she had sprinted to her car, then this moment wouldn’t be happening right now.

And it is, it’s a moment, and she feels it so suddenly her skin prickles.

“That’s a nice one,” Chloe says, pointing to the lipgloss.

Izzie looks down at it, like she’d forgotten she was holding it. “Oh, yeah—a friend gave it to me—I—I haven’t gotten to try it yet.”

Chloe smiles, rubbing at her so her eye so her finger comes back shimmering. “Oh really? Nice friend, that stuff’s expensive.”

Izzie grins, remembering how that was exactly what she had said. “I know, and trust me she never lets me forget it.”

They both laugh and it’s easy until it’s quiet again, until it’s just them and the rolling thunder in the distance. Chloe coughs, glances away like she’s about to say something, like she’s about to do the polite thing and leave, but a rush surges up through Izzie and she knows if she lets this moment go she’ll never have it again. She thinks of all the incantations she’d perfected, all the things she’d done specifically to will this moment into existence, and she thinks “I am full of light; I am full of wonder.”

“Do you—” she starts, and it bursts out of her so Chloe looks a little startled.  Her voice feels shaky but she pushes through it. “I mean, I just noticed that your makeup is always really nice, do you—use this brand?”

“I don’t actually,” Chloe says, and she’s smiling again; Izzie tries not to preen under knowing that she’s made her smile. “Usually everything I wear is drugstore; I work part-time at a pharmacy so I get discounts on already crazy cheap stuff, can’t beat it really.”

“No, definitely not,” Izzie says, and the way she’s looking at her makes her feel bold, makes her feel like she wants to fluff her feathers anyway, wants to be magic. “I mean, you can have this one, if you want,” and she reaches her palm out to hand it back to her. Chloe raises an eyebrow and stares at her.

“What, like, really?”

“Yeah,” Izzie shrugs, tries to speak over the blood rushing in her ears. “I have a ton of this stuff, my friend is….really generous.”

She stares at her for a second, a little skeptical, but Izzie stares right back, sure of herself. “That’s really sweet, thank you,” she eventually says, taking it from her and putting it back in her bag.

“You’re welcome,” Izzie says, just as the first raindrops start to fall. It’s the kind of rain that goes from drizzling to monsoon in no time at all and soon they’re just about soaked.

“Oh, shit,” Chloe says, suddenly looking desperate. “I need to catch the bus, I have work in a little—agh, I don’t think I have a jacket,” and she doesn’t seem to, digging through her bag and groaning when she comes up empty-handed.

“I could—give you a lift?”

At the sound of Izzie’s voice, soft but steady, Chloe pops her head up.

She’s shaking her head like she couldn’t possibly. “Oh, no, that’s too much, don’t be—”

“No,” Izzie cuts her off, nodding like she means it, hoping desperately that she can see how much she means it, “I want to. I’d—I’d like to.”

Something shifts in the way Chloe is looking at her, something minute in her face and Izzie wonders if she’s remembering all the times Izzie has looked at her like this, has caught her eye in the mirror or from afar and looked away, quickly, has talked softly around her because she’s afraid that if she raises her voice, if she draws too much attention to herself, the love would simply seep out of her skin and crash onto the floor at her feet.

The rain is falling down Chloe’s face now, sticking her dark hair to the sides of her face, her shimmery eyeshadow just about gone, and she tilts her head like she’s examining Izzie, like she’s looking at her anew. Without breaking their eye contact, she pops open the tube of lipgloss and coats her lips with it. Izzie watches her hold her mouth slightly open, the pinkness of her tongue, the way she’s careful not to hit her teeth. When she’s done she smacks her lips, rubbing them together, and the blue is so startlingly beautiful that it’s magic.

“I’d like that, too,” she says, grinning, and the words fall so easily out of her blue lips.

Izzie smiles for what feels like the first time all day, and it warms her from the inside out.

She unlocks her car and Chloe throws her stuff in the backseat, squealing when she steps in a puddle and plopping down in the front. Izzie laughs, says something about not tracking any mud in her car, and Chloe responds right back, promising that she won’t. Their voices are flirty already, Izzie can hear it coasting off them and it’s easy, it’s suddenly so very easy. Izzie starts the engine and punches the radio off, pulling out the lot with only the sound of Chloe’s voice in her ear.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Chloe will meet Zayn. Izzie will take her over to Zayn’s under the pretense of free makeup and they will stay for hours, eating warm scones and drinking tea, her and Zayn striking up a camaraderie almost instantly, bickering about the best way to apply eyeshadow and bonding over the merits of hairless cats (Chloe’s grandmother has one, too).  Eventually, Izzie will tell her, in her driveway at two in the morning after a movie, that she likes her. That she _likes_ her likes her. She will respond that she knows, that she has known, and couldn’t Izzie tell that that’s why she always wore bright lipstick, so that she might notice her, and that that’s why she never talked to her too long, afraid her feelings might be too noticeable? Eventually, Izzie will cut her off and kiss her. She will taste like stale popcorn and sugar and both of their lipsticks will mix, they will smear it across their chins and noses without meaning to. Eventually, Chloe will go inside her house and wave from the door and flick the light when Izzie honks and Izzie will drive to Zayn’s and she will cry on her lap, on the porch steps, the happiest tears she’s ever cried, and she will thank her and thank her and thank her.

Eventually, all of that happens but right now they are just two girls getting to know each other, riding in a car.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, holla at me [here](http://fleshriots.tumblr.com)! all my fic is [here](http://lightseep.tumblr.com)! thanks for reading!


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